So Far From Your Weapon
by nmqttps
Summary: There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole / You're so far from your weapon, and you wanna go home


Based on "So Far From Your Weapon" by The Dead Weather. It's been mulling around in my head for a while, and I thought that today was the day to get it out.

Happy Riechenday.

* * *

He's gasping for air.

John's trying to stem the bleeding, but there's nothing he can do- he's just not prepared for this.

His hands, arms, and most of his clothing are stained red. His fingers are numb from the cold-he's used most of his extra layers to tend to the gaping hole in Sherlock's gut.

There's blood everywhere. It's the only thing that's warm.

"Jo- Joh-"

"Shh."

He smoothes out Sherlock's matted hair, tries to clean his wound. There's a streak of dried blood on Sherlock's pale forehead from where he'd done this hours ago.

Under his hands, Sherlock shivers.

He cries out in pain and there is nothing John can do to help him.

Nothing he _will_ do to help him. He knows the difference.

Sherlock knows, too.

He uses both of his hands to grab one of John's wrists, pulls himself up to spit blood in his face-

"_Please."_

He's running after him.

He's running after him and there's criminals running after _them_- he doesn't know where they are anymore. He's just chasing the coattails of a madman through the bowels of a dilapidated factory in Northern Russia.

_All Russia is Northern Russia, Sherlock._

_Northern-Northern Russia, then. Ever been?_

Left, right, under some rusted equipment, over the hood of a car.

John's gun is cold against his skin- metal searing ice into the flesh of his back, pressed into his spine like a wound.

_No, and I don't particularly want to._

_Shame. It's your favourite sort of crime- thugs, robbers. Relatively few innocent deaths. Bound to be a good chase or two._

He pulls it into his hands when the first shots are fired- two against the brick wall above his head, one into the dumpster to his left- and wheels around as he runs, firing two shots and connecting with one shoulder.

He looks forward just in time to follow Sherlock ducking into a tiny, dark hallway.

It was winter in London, too. A light snow had fallen on the walks and handrails as Dr. John Watson found his way home from the clinic- he pulled his jacket closer to his body, balling his hands into fists in his pockets to protect them from cold. Maybe, he conceded idly, maybe he should find himself a nice scarf.

At least some gloves.

You're not in Afghanistan anymore, Dorothy.

Sherlock was up to something, John could tell even before he'd bounded the seventeen steps into their flat; the thick coats hanging up in the foyer gave away the presence of clients. When he made to let them all be and climb the stairs into his room, Sherlock stopped him, invited him in- As was standard, he'd been asked to stay and record the interrogation.

Which turned out to be useless, as Sherlock and the men were speaking very quickly and very fluently in Russian.

Instead of recording, John made himself useful by fixing himself some dinner, situating himself at the edge of the couch and reading the paper until the men- apparently appeased- stood, shook Sherlock's hand vigorously, and left the room.

"What was that about?" John asked about fifteen minutes later, when his curiosity outweighed his need to not give in to Sherlock's need to be given into.

"Trying to make a deal with the most dangerous thug in Russia," He responds flippantly. Coming from any other person, the tone would have been perceived as sarcasm- from Sherlock, it really was just a day in the live.

"And did you get anywhere?"

Sherlock scowled.

"Obviously not. How do you feel about Northern Russia?"

John groaned. If he thought it was cold in London, he knew for certain that he wouldn't last an hour in any part of Russia.

"All Russia is Northern Russia, Sherlock."

The other man rolled his eyes- he pulled his suit jacket closer to himself, flopping on the rest of the couch. At least he'd deigned to dress himself for his clients- must be important, then. At least a six- he still didn't leave the house.

"_Northern_ Northern Russia, then. Ever been?"

"No, and…"

He knew where this was going.

"I don't particularly plan to, either."

"Shame. It's your favourite sort of crime- thugs, robbers. Relatively few innocent deaths. Bound to be a good chase or too."

" It's the middle of _winter_, Sherlock. You don't really mean-"

His incredulity was rewarded with that up-to-no-good grin.

"Oh, of course I do. Pack lightly- we shouldn't be there too long."

He seemed to mull that over.

"Leave your gun at home, too. Too difficult- airports. I'll arrange for a new one when we get there."

John sighed- after this long with Sherlock, he knew when to pick his battles.

"Well, I guess I'll start looking for a warm winter coat, then."

"Good! Get mine a bit on the larger side- my arms are long."

Before John could argue, Sherlock hopped up from his chair, slung his coat around himself, and hopped down the stairs.

He's holding Sherlock's head up from the dirty floor.

With one hand, he's slowly tipping a flask into the other man's mouth. Sherlock gagged and choked, coughing the whiskey out and onto his bloodied, frosty shirt.

"Come on, Sherlock… Just a bit. To take the edge off."

Sherlock groaned.

With the other hand, John catches Sherlock's as it snaked to his stomach- the other man kept trying to touch the wound. That would only serve in infection.

John could only hope that he had the privilege to worry about infection.

He squeezed the other man's hand, trying once more to give him more of the alcohol.

"Oh, come on. Just drink a bit. It'll help. I- I promise."

Sherlock shut his mouth, lips white and dry.

"It's all we have. Just… Drink some. Please. It's-"

He hated having to admit this.

"It's all I have for you right now, Sherlock. Please just drink some. I know it's hard."

He shifts so he can prop Sherlock's head against his knees- with one hand, he tips the flask into the man's reluctantly open mouth. With the other, he keeps Sherlock from grabbing the gun in John's coat pocket.

They take a private jet to Russia- their client has a _lot_ of money, it seems, and isn't at all sheepish about using it to make their ride comfortable. Which is good- He had a bit of a feeling that Sherlock was running low on money, and that he wouldn't stoop so low as to ask his brother for his allowance. John hasn't been on a plane since he's been in the army- and at that, he's never been on a plane that serves hot meals that aren't under a film of plastic, or planes that give the passengers thick blankets and real pillows to curl up under when the night gets cold.

Sherlock spends the ride being bored and looking over evidence- John prefers to stare out the window and flirt with the unreasonably attractive flight attendants.

Eventually even flight attendants have to sleep though, and Sherlock is keeping John awake with his light.

"You have _three pages_ of information. What could you possibly be doing with them for this long?"

Sherlock ignored him for a long while- John scowled, deigning to use the comfortable pillow that he'd once been excited to use _under_ his head as a blind from the light. He turned himself away from Sherlock and his three pages of information and his blasted light and tried to get some sleep.

"It's- difficult. This entire thing is-"

Sherlock looked over to his friend, but he'd already fallen asleep.

Under some construction equipment, over a car hood.

He's following the madman he calls his flatmate, his best friend, his consulting detective.

There are shots being fired all around them. It pierces holes in the metal and wood around them- They dive into a hallway and run.

There is no time for talking- no time for plans. Sherlock will think and decide, and John will follow and protect.

But he is running out of bullets.

The hallway is short, but opens into two more- and multiple strong doors. A bullet ricochets off of one of them and grazes his arm- _Fuck,_ he curses.

Sherlock twists himself around, stops for a half second- a half second is all he has.

The momentum from the shot knocks him off of his feet.

John has three bullets- he does not need to aim. The first goes between the shooter's eyes- the second into his friend.

Sherlock is screaming.

With one hand John turns the safety on and pockets the gun. With the other, he heaves Sherlock over his shoulder, careful not to leave a trail of blood as he pulls them both into the first room he can find and bolts the door shut behind him.

They're in a bar- it's nice. The people here are rough and look eager to kill the both of them if given the order, but the drinks are free.

The heating is on and, after even just the ten minute walk to this damned place, that's all that matters to John.

John has no idea what's going on- all proceedings are dealt with in Russian, a language of which wouldn't know the top from the bottom. So he sits next to Sherlock, fingering the condensation rings that his glass of whiskey set into the dark glass table.

He'd wanted to order a vodka- Russia and all- but Sherlock ordered for him. He must have known better than to play by stereotype with a gang of dangerous thugs who, apparently, believed that Sherlock had fallen for their gripe about stolen funds and oil marks.

Apparently, Sherlock's feet were big enough to tread on the toes of the Northern-Northern Russian mafia.

Apparently, they weren't very happy about that.

Sherlock had assumed that the best way to deal with this situation was to remove themselves from all authority that could have protected them from a man who looked like he could snap the two of them in neat, equal halves with his chest hair and _still_ insisted on carrying a firearm with him at all times. Had insisted on losing all security details that Mycroft had planted on the plane, in the airport, in Yekaterinburg- _however_ you'd pronounce that.

Apparently, the best way to defeat an entire regime that wanted you dead was on your own.

And, of course, on their dime.

"- Isn't that right, John?"

"Hm?"

He hadn't been listening. Of course he hadn't been listening. He wasn't like Sherlock- he couldn't pick out foreign verbs by tonality.

"Yeah. Yes, Of course."

He gave his most earnest fake smile to the man sitting opposite them, taking another sip in the form of a curt toast to whatever the hell he was affirming. Hopefully nothing too damning, if there was even such a thing.

"Of course."

"_John-"_

"Shh- Sherlock, they'll hear you."

"_Oh my god, John-"_

John is unzipping Sherlock's coat, unbuttoning his sweaters and jackets and shirt.

He swears like he hasn't sworn since his own flesh was torn into.

"_Shut up_, Sherlock. Do you want to be shot again?"

He's not prepared for this. He has nothing to work with. He has the clothes on his body and the gun in his hands.

He has one bullet to protect them both with. They need to stay low.

One of John's hands is on the gun right now- it's warm from recent use. It's the only warm thing.

His other hand is trying to keep Sherlock's abdomen together.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-_

He pulls the scarf from around his own neck, plunging it onto and into the wound- anything to stop the bleeding.

Sherlock cries out- it echoes like an animal, like a thousand animals.

With one of his hands, John covers Sherlock's mouth.

There's nothing else John can do.

They are back at the hotel after a long day of clandestine snooping for their client and even more clandestine snooping against them. There's a new gun pressed against the small of John's back, a thick jacket, and a warm bath waiting for him. Their room is lavish- there are even two beds, something that John is more than thankful for.

There are gifts for the both of them waiting on their pillows- Sherlock receives a magnifying glass; it is sleek and modern, safe for the massive ruby inlaid in the handle.

John receives a simple pocket flask- inside smells suspiciously like absurdly expensive whiskey.

"Don't worry, the whiskey won't be poisoned," Sherlock addresses John's thoughts, tossing the magnifying glass into his bag with the type of scorn only reserved for socks unwrapped on Christmas Day. "They won't be so idiotic as to try to kill us _directly._ They'll want to dispose of us in a much more remote location. Like where we're going tomorrow."

John still doesn't like the idea of trusting it, but the flask fits nicely in the inside pocket of his new jacket, so he deposits it there. It would be nice to show the murderous thugs that he was, at the very least, appreciative.

"Do we have a plan then, for tomorrow?" John asked- Sherlock was flipping through the limited channels on the television, frowning at every choice he was given.

"We do what they tell us to. We go where they tell us to go. We find our way out. I've contacted the authorities- Not the Russian ones, obviously. American. They should be in the city within the week if we need reinforcements."

_Within the week_ wasn't exactly comforting. He wasn't going to point out the _painfully_ obvious, though, so he went for the next best-

"Not British?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not _Mycroft_."

John nodded, _ahh, _in a way that made it quite clear that the entire ordeal was ridiculous. Sherlock, in response, rolled his eyes but said nothing more on the matter.

"We'll be home before Saturday, if everything goes as planned."

John laughed.

"So we'll be home in May, you mean."

From the corner of his eye, John could see a small quirk of a smile on Sherlock's face.

"I'll get you home for your birthday, at the very least."

"How kind of you."

He's holding the gun in his hand- he's not shaking. In fact, his heart rate is completely normal- he feels no need to breathe or hold himself together or rethink this or cry.

The gun is frozen cold his hand- he's taken his gloves off six days ago. His hands are numb.

His entire body is numb.

In the other corner of the room, Sherlock is alternating between wheezing painfully and groaning his name.

He's always calling out to John. It's intolerable.

"_John-"_

The man in question turned to his friend- one of Sherlock's arms was pressed into his stomach.

The other was stretched out to John.

_"Please-"_

"Sherlock."

Small steps. One, two, three, four. Eight steps to the span of Sherlock's arm-

_Get mine a big on the larger side- my arms are long-_

His hair is not so much curly anymore as it is matted with his own blood.

Everything is covered in his blood. Even John.

Especially John.

He kneels next to the man, just out of reach- Sherlock waves his arm, just slightly, stretching out his fingers to try and touch him. When he comes close to grazing the slick material of the coat, John leans back ever slightly.

Sherlock lets the arm fall with a groan, and fights the urge to roll onto his side. It doesn't help the pain.

Nothing will help the pain.

Except-

"_John, please."_

John has the gun in his hand. The safety is on.

He fumbles in his inside coat pocket.

His hand meets with metal- it's warm.

"Sherlock,"

He doesn't catch his attention- it's not meant to. He opens the cylinder of the revolver- he's always hated revolvers. Too Western.

He loads the single bullet. His fingers fumble- they can't feel what they're doing.

"Sherlock."

His hand is numb- it's freezing. It will be cold for a long time. The reinforcements aren't coming.

The safety is off.

"Sherlock."

He's repeating his name, a mantra to catch his attention- a glimpse at his bloodshot eyes. Glazed over, frozen.

In incomprehensible pain.

He stands up- a single step back.

Both of Sherlock's hands are pressed against his own abdomen. They are stained red and sluggish.

Both of John's hands are pressed against the gun they'd just loaded. They are frostbitten and painful.

"_John..."_

He takes a deep breath. He doesn't need to aim. This is the easiest shot he'll ever take.

"Sherlock."

Both of John's hands cradle the gun. They are skilful and accurate.


End file.
